


Remembrance

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Bullying, Homophobic Language, John Has Always Been A BAMF, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, Lestrade Has Always Been Hot, Mystrade if you squint, Poll Prompt, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Is Secretly A Sweet Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2365508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets a peculiar little kid at a Remembrance Day ceremony</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Just an exercise.  
> Or exorcism.  
> Or both.

 

Remembrance Day may have been a solemn event, but to John Hamish Watson who had, less than a week prior, just taken his shiny new eleventh year out of the box, it was brilliant as well. He got to wear his brand new jumper his mother would knit him every year for the occasion. He would complain to his mates that of course he was too old now for motherly doting but he secretly relished the fact that they always smelled like her when he first got them, and she would always say that it was like a hug from her every time he wore it. It was a sentiment that he'd never be rid of, even when he pulled on a store bought one. There was an accompanying crisp new button up to go with it. This one was a deep blue, the buttons a cloudy pearl colour. The jumper was the same hue as plain porridge. Both of his tops served to bring out his eyes, she told him. His eyes were just like his Da's, she would say, and then hers would get sad and John would let her hug him so she would stop crying.

 

There were flyovers and gun salutes and men and women in smart uniforms milling about the fielded area, basking in the unusually warm and sunny November Sunday. He practiced his salute in the mirror often and got a thrill every time it was returned. There were other children about, not counting his little sister who clutched Mum's hand the whole time. Harriet, who had at first been very loud and demanding, suddenly became an anxious little thing two years prior.

 

As John was handing out his messenger bag full of poppies as he'd been charged with doing, he heard a noise that was slightly off. His Da had taught him to pay attention to his environment, to listen first because eyes failed more than ears. When he found the source of what he'd heard, it just looked like a few lads, some probably around his age and some older, standing around talking. But the location was strange, around the side of the brick walls that housed the park's public loos. There was one rather high-pitched voice that didn't seem to belong to any of them, but was present all the same. He made his way toward that direction, smiling and saluting and shaking hands, all the while keeping his eye on whatever was going on over there. As he drew closer he saw flashes of coin, either changing hands or just held in them. He could also hear better what was being said.

 

"Your father is a pilot," the littler voice was saying.

 

"Everyone knows that!" snapped a ginger kid. 

 

"Yes but he somehow doesn't do well on pilot simulation console games." He'd had to give up one of his coins to what John could now see was a tiny boy with a mass of lazy black curls on his head. He wore a bespoke suit, leaning against the wall in a way that made John flinch a bit about what state the back of his jacket must be in. The boy didn't seem worried about it at all as he casually made what seemed like predictions or something about the boys surrounding him. John didn't like the look of the situation but, again, the boy didn't seem to actually care as he spouted what seemed to be facts the way he delivered them.

 

_Seven boys. Two around my age, the rest older. Perhaps even teen-agers. My age ones casual, teens standing a bit too close and speaking as if they're almost angry. Heightened threat level._

The younger boys left the gathering because they were apparently out of money. The older ones began asking more probing questions until finally, it became exactly what John was afraid it would.

 

"Is Nigel here gay for Corey?" They all snickered and Nigel, a caramel-skinned boy with tight black curls cut close to his head laughed with them.

 

"Oi! I ain't no poof!"

 

"Actually," said the little voice, a bit of a lisp rendering his speech pretty endearing, "You want to kiss Christopher the way that parents kiss each other but you won't tell anybody." The group, rowdy and laughing a moment ago went dead silent as they all stared at the child over whom they loomed.

 

"I ain't no bloody shirt-lifter, Nigel." John had to assume that was Christopher.

 

"I ain't either," Nigel protested. "You shut up, Sherlock Holmes!" What sort of name was that?

 

"Yeah piss off!"

 

"When people fancy each other," Sherlock said, doing the exact opposite of shutting up but, in a way pissing him off, "their pupils get really wide even in a lot of light where they would normally get smaller, and they breathe a bit faster. Sometimes it's the same as being angry but Christopher is your friend, Nigel, and you didn't seem angry with him when I observed those traits."

 

At this point, John started running.

 

He closed the distance just as Nigel shoved the child into the gravel, obliterating the knees of his nice trousers. This Sherlock(really, though, what kind of a name is Sherlock?)didn't even cry out. He teared up a bit, only visible because a bit of sunlight glinted off of the water in his eyes. With a left hook his Da always mentioned he was proud of teaching him despite Mum's instruction to the contrary, Nigel was on his own knees, in a similar position as Sherlock, nose pouring blood.

 

"Have you nothing better to do than push around a little kid?" John asked, eyes squinting dangerously, both hands fisted at his sides, body firmly planted between the little one and the others, ready to go again on a moment's notice.

 

"What're you going to do about it, half pint?" John was on the smaller side of boys his age, he knew. Even seven year-old Harriet was nearly his height. But what he lacked in height and girth, he made up for with balls of steel. He didn't even flinch when Christopher made as if he was going to launch himself at him. This show of courage apparently angered the object of Nigel's affection. Two of the other three had fled when Nigel was taken down. Christopher then actually did have a go, and with a left, two quick rights, and a shove, the remaining boys were encouraged to vacate the premises. John waited until they were far enough away for his liking before turning to the child, hugging his knobby scraped knees and sniffing for all he was worth, as if his eyes would suck the tears that had already fallen back in. 

 

"Alright?" John asked, eyes running over the crimson oozing from the child's knees but not touching them yet. Something about this little one's stature said  _stay back_ , so John obliged at first until he could get a better idea of the situation.

 

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, his voice hitching in a heart-breaking manner.

 

"Mind if I take a look at your knees? I have a medi-kit in my satchel here." The boy examined him with eyes that were mostly green, but flecked with blue and grey and even gold. Somehow that pale gaze was extracting his life force a tiny bit at a time. "I have cool plasters," he offered, needing to say something.

 

"What ones do you have?"

 

Sherlock flinched a bit as John diligently cleaned his wounds, tears rolling down pale cheeks yet there was zero sniveling. John spoke soothing words about what a brave little soldier he was, taking a page from his mother's book on soothing children, then asking him questions such as his age(six)and if his name really was Sherlock.

 

"It's what I like to be called," the boy said, sniffing as if it was disdain instead of discomfort.

 

"Yeah but is it actually your name?"

 

"One of them," he replied truthfully.

 

"I'm John. John Watson."

 

"Sherlock Holmes. You're missing a button. Probably popped off when you were fighting." John's brain went on high alert as he searched the ground after confirming the statement.

 

"Oh no! Mum'll have my guts for garters. This is a brand new shirt-" Just then, rather thin pale fingers reached toward his now exposed throat. They extracted the chain, examined the round metal disks. It made John go still. He didn't normally let anyone touch his Da's dog tags, especially strangers. But this kid was proving himself different in so many ways. Also he was practically a baby and babies could get away with more. 

 

"Are you going to be a soldier too, John?" John looked at this odd creature with his odd name as he seemed fascinated by the dog tags. He then shrugged. 

 

"Yeah. And a doctor. That's why I always carry a little medical kit with me. Have to be prepared out in the field." He silently offered Sherlock his choice of plasters with little cartoon characters on them. Sherlock, just as silently chose the one covered in bees. "Mum got upset when I told her I wanted to go into the Army when I was old enough. She says to me, 'You're clever enough to be a doctor,' she says. I went on the internet at school and found out I could do both. But when I told her she only said, 'That's nice' in the way that means she doesn't really believe me."

 

John smoothed the plasters over the bony knees before dropping a healing kiss on each one without even thinking about it. He couldn't do that in the Army. But again this was a little kid. The thought of kissing war wounds made him giggle a little bit. Sherlock gave him a puzzled look but asked the unexpected question, "Why do you wear your father's dog tags?"

 

"Protection," came the automatic answer. It's what his Da did, protect people. He sat next to Sherlock in a similar position, knees up, back against the cool brick wall.

 

"If you have them, that means he's dead so they didn't do a very good job of protecting  _him_ , did they?" Sherlock said bluntly, picking at the little rocks nonchalantly as he tore at John's heart.

 

"They did protect him," John said, trying to control his temper as he was taught. "He didn't feel any pain. It was instant. And he died protecting people by throwing himself on that grenade and now, he protects us from Heaven."  

 

"There's no such thing as Heaven." John was on his feet before he knew it.

 

"There is too! And my Da's there protecting me because I got into a lot of bad accidents and was really sick a few times and every time the doctors said it should have killed me, but I didn't die because my Da protected me!" He felt his face grow hot and his breathing laboured. This...  _baby_  knew nothing! Not about stuff that mattered, anyways. Being gay or straight didn't matter as far as John knew and neither did who did what job in the military as they were all serving a purpose greater than themselves, whatever that meant. All he knew was that his Da was practically Superman and this little squeaky mouse wasn't going to say anything different. He was seeing it now, what made people want to beat him up. But still he was a little kid. As all of these thoughts flashed through John's head, he watched Sherlock stand, wipe off his hands, then squat a bit laboriously due to his injured knees and pinch something off of the ground. At first John thought it a particularly shiny rock. But Sherlock held it out to him, little back straight, little nose up in the air.

 

"I apologise, John. You do well at protecting and being a doctor. You protected me from those boys and put plasters on my knees. I think you'll be a brilliant Army Doctor."

 

"I... thanks."

 

"You're welcome. Here is your button." Just like that, John was diffused. He actually wanted to hug this kid now. What just happened?

 

"Cor! Great! How'd you find it?"

 

"Simple maths. Trajectory and such."

 

"Do you even know how to  _spell_  'trajectory'?"

 

"Don't be ridiculous, John, of course I do." There was a quiet between them, an easy camaraderie that probably didn't actually come easy with this child in general.

 

"We should... get you back to your parents. They'll want to know what happened to your trousers."

 

"I suppose," the boy sighed, as if he was the most put-upon creature on earth.

 

"Won't they be cross?"

 

"A bit.  Until I do this." Sherlock looked at John with widened his eyes so that every bit of colour could be seen. They filled, his full bottom lip trembling just enough to shake loose a couple of tears. John would have been totally convinced had he not been informed beforehand of the ruse. He shook his head and began walking toward the gathering.

 

"Wow," John was saying, letting Sherlock catch up to him before moving to trail ever so slightly behind him, making sure there were no further bullying ambushes planned. He was only a little surprised when Sherlock slid his hand easily into his as they strolled. He said nothing about it. In fact, he listened even more closely to Sherlock's rants about... what was it, his brother now? 

 

"You best bring me to my brother, first," Sherlock sighed again. "Easier than dealing with my parents."

 

"You have a brother?"

 

"You act like it's some great feat." John rolled his eyes.

 

"Which one is he?"

 

"The fat one." John scanned the crowd and saw only one group of people that may have fit the age range if not the appearance.

 

"I don't see a-"

 

"The one talking to the policewoman's son."

 

"The... policewoman's-"

 

"Ugh!" Sherlock threw exasperated hands and expressions to the heavens before once more grabbing the hand he'd been holding. "There! Right there!" He pointed at the same group of boys John had been looking at the whole time. "Grey suit, umbrella, talking to that black haired boy on the dirt bike he fancies."

 

"How do you know that?"

 

"My brother's a homosexual." The little lisping voice made the word sound almost obscene. But not quite since it didn't really matter. His Da's brother was a gay and really put out by it. Their part of the Watson family was the only one to accept his uncle readily when he came out.

 

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Nothing wrong with that."

 

"No. Except for the fact that my brother would require a lorry for their first date if he can somehow talk that boy into it. That boy fancies both girls and boys."

 

Sherlock then proceeded to tell him how he could tell. John whistled low and smiled widely with a breathy, "Fantastic!" Sherlock stopped walking so John did too.

   

"Erm... what?"

 

"That was amazing. Just extraordinary."

 

"That's not what people normally say."

 

"Why what do people normally say?"  

 

"What you heard earlier. Piss off." John nearly had to sit down for all of his laughter. He finally got it together enough to go on. Sherlock never let go of his hand. "You lick your lips a lot," Sherlock mentioned.

 

"Do I?"

 

"Yes. And your nose twitches when you're about to punch somebody."

 

"Really?"

 

"Uh-huh. And when you're  _really_  angry, you smile the tiniest bit. It's funny to see how terrified it makes people." John wasn't sure how he felt about being laid bare by a six year old. "By the way, your jumper is hideous."

 

"I like this jumper. My Mum made it for me."

 

"I could tell."

 

"Well we all can't be posh gits with expensive clothes we don't even care about, can we?"

 

Sherlock shrugged shallowly.

 

"And your brother is not actually fat," he added.

 

"Then you should have an eye exam as you'll need much better vision to be a doctor."

 

Just then, the same assessing stare the little one had, came at him from the big one, tall and imposing.

 

"Oh, Sherlock," he was chastised, halfway between exasperation and worry. John understood completely. "What have you done to yourself? I can't bring you back to Mummy and Father in this state."

 

"I didn't do anything, Mycroft!" What was _up_ with these names? There was an eyebrow way too expertly cocked at Sherlock, even for a teen-ager. "There were other children asking me questions for money if I got them right but then they got angry. But John Watson... protected me." John wasn't sure if he should let go of the child's hand or not but Sherlock certainly showed no signs of releasing his.

 

"Come along, Sherlock. You know I always keep spare clothes in the car." Sherlock sighed an identical sigh to the one his brother gave when they first walked up. "Apologies, Gregory. My brother is quite the handful."

 

"I see that," said the slightly older teen. He mussed Sherlock's hair earning himself a rather adorable sneer. "Laters, Myc." He continued to lean against his transportation with his straight black hair and large dark eyes and leather jacket. John saw the appeal. He was cool. 

 

Sherlock tugged at John's hand until he bent far enough at the knee to receive a surprising kiss on his cheek. The older boys all looked at each other but no one said a word and Sherlock acted as if nothing was amiss. Mycroft shook John's hand and acquired his home number as only his mother had a mobile.

 

"Behave yourself, Sherlock," John warned.

 

"Dull," droned the child before trailing reluctantly after his big brother.

 


End file.
